his tower. People think I spend hours at the gym, but my real secret is years of climbing heaps of stairs.
I walk inside my father’s stifling furnace, wincing from the heat. This time, Father is sitting at his writing desk, his laptop open to a familiar red-and-white screen.
Royal Exposé.
Dad beckons me with a long finger. “Come here.”
“I already know.”
He makes a face at the grainy photo of Daisy and I at Betty’s. “I don’t give a damn about the tabloids. You know that.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
“Because she doesn’t need a tabloid to look ridiculous. What is this?”
“She might’ve been doing it on purpose to piss me off.”
He wheels around in his chair, stabbing me in the chest with his finger. “You need to control your wife.”
“What do you want me to do, whip her through the streets?”
“If necessary.”
God, he’s such a dick.
“The wedding is in a few days, and I will not tolerate another gaffe like this.”
“She’s not posh, Dad. She grew up in a place surrounded by smelly hippies.”
“If you’re marrying her, it’s your job to make her a royal, not into a laughingstock.”
A wave of fatigue hits my chest as I look at the photo, trying to muster the energy to give a shit about any of this. Honestly, who the fuck cares? The people will forget about this incident in a week when there’s a new issue of that gossip rag to look at.
“Whatever you may think of her, polls show a five percent increase in approval for the government since that article about us was released.”
Father narrows his eyes, torn between his hatred for everything American and his ego. “You need to prepare her for a royal wedding.”
“I know.”
“The whole world will be watching.”
“I know.”
“My aides tell me that your fiancée is in the palace gardens. Go to her.”
“Fine.” Anything to get away from Dad.
“Son.”
“What?”
He raises an eyebrow at my testy voice. “I expect you to take this marriage seriously.”
“Of course I will.”
“I expect you to breed her.”
Wow.
I gaze at him openmouthed.
“You’re twenty-eight years old, son. You will need heirs, and I will not be convinced you are ready for the throne until your wife is pregnant.”
He is serious.
I imagine approaching Daisy with that. Remember how I said we could just get married and everything would be fine? Well, I lied. He wants me to impregnate you too.
There’s no fucking way.
“My cock will work overtime until she is pregnant.”
He shoots me a disgusted look. “Get out.”
Gladly.
Father turns back toward the computer as I jog down the stairs, deciding to keep his edict to myself. Telling me what to do with my cock is a step too far, in my opinion, as is telling me to breed my wife as though she’s a racehorse.
The palace gardens are a short walk north from the keep. I push open the kissing gate to the lush garden. There are regional plants from all over the world, large green hedges, blocks of dark blue tulips, quiet areas surrounded by little brooks, and there’s even a Japanese tea garden. She could be anywhere.
My ears sting from the sudden chill as I walk down a path. The weak sunlight is completely blocked by the trees. I wrap my jacket around my chest, wondering where the hell I might be if I were her.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness.”
One of the gardeners bends in a deep bow as I pass by, and I incline my head. Sometimes it gets really fucking old having people scraping and bowing to me everywhere I go. I just want to be called by my name—Liam.
I round the corner after searching through the rose garden and marching through the tropical greenhouses. She’s not in the bamboo forest either. Where the hell is she? I tear through the place, getting mud all over my shoes as I walk the same path I did a hundred times before, and then I see something that makes me pause: a hunched-over figure kneeling by the brook.
She’s wearing the clothes she came to Anglefell with, except she’s wearing a different t-shirt. It’s canary yellow. She looks like a bird with a black, feathered head. Daisy starts as I jump off the path. I take in her red, flushed arms and her widened eyes. She lifts her hand to wipe a strand of hair from her eyes, and the gaudy sapphire ring winks at me.
“Here,” I say as I shrug my jacket off. “We really need to get you warmer clothes. This isn’t California.”